


Holding On (or, 5 times Phil had no idea what to make of Clint’s behavior, and 1 time he finally figured it out)

by Teeelsie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Amused Nick, Bemused Phil, Confused Clint, First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, Jealous Clint Barton, LLF Comment Project, M/M, Post-Avengers (2012), Protective Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-07 03:27:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13425810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teeelsie/pseuds/Teeelsie
Summary: Sometimes, it takes a near-death experience to realize what someone means to you, even if you don't realize you realize it.





	1. Vigil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [3White_Mage3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3White_Mage3/gifts).



> So, waaaaaay back, last January, I actioned a fic (for a donation to a human rights organization) and 3White_Mage3 started things off with an awesome opening bid. They didn't end up winning, but made a donation anyway and so I said I wanted to write them a fic, too. Only a year later (ducks head in shame), I'm finally posting the first chapter.
> 
> Thanks so much to 3WM3, who's been infinitely patient while I work on other fic. I'm soooo sorry for the long wait! They asked for Clint/Coulson with exasperated Nick; fondly amused but mildly disconcerted Phil; and Clint, who's just trying to hold on. And nothing sad, because the world has too much sadness in it already. I couldn't agree more!
> 
> Because I'm me, this starts off a little angsty - because apparently I'm physically incapable of sitting at my computer and writing fic that doesn't have a t least A LITTLE angst - but it won't last, I promise! 
> 
> Thanks to JD45, who slapped me around and gave me valuable feedback on this fic.

Things are starting to be clearer and stick with him for longer. Sometimes he stays awake as long as an hour or two, and mostly remembers it all the next time he wakes up. At least he thinks he does – he supposes he wouldn’t really know if he’d forgotten. But people’s expressions seem to be less troubled when he opens his eyes and starts talking, so he takes that as a good sign.

 

Phil sighs. He’s supremely bored of this room already. They won’t give him a tablet or a phone, but they’ll let him watch television, which makes him suspect that there are things going on that they don’t want him to know about. (Nick tells him that they’re not hiding anything; that it’s for his own good because they know if they give him a computer he won’t get any rest. There’s probably some truth to that, but he’s suspicious anyway.) And there’s no DVR so watching television means having to actually sit through commercials. _Commercials!_ He hasn’t not fast-forwarded through them in years. Not to mention that Medical’s cable package is awful and don’t even get him started about the inanity of the morning ‘news’ programs. Ugh. The only thing keeping him from losing his mind has been Clint, who, more often than not, is sitting by his bed when he wakes.  He’s always enjoyed Clint’s company (probably more than he should).

 

He’d felt near-overwhelming relief the first time he’d opened his eyes to see Clint, sitting in the chair next to him, leaning forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor with hands steepled in front of his mouth as though in prayer. The last he’d known, Loki had apparently possessed him somehow, and his agent was running the demigod’s ground game. At first sight, he’d wondered if it was some kind of strange, hopeful dream. But no, Clint looked terrible, so it probably wasn’t that; If Phil’s subconscious was going to conjure up a Hawkeye to be standing vigil over him, he wouldn’t look so wrecked. Clint was gaunt, there were dark smudges under his eyes set off in stark relief against his grey pallor, and he had visible healing cuts and fading bruises all up and down his arms, and on his neck and face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days and quite frankly looked as bad as Phil felt.

 

And then Phil had had the disturbing thought that Clint might still be Loki’s puppet, and he was their prisoner.

 

“Are you back with us, Agent?” Phil had croaked. He barely got the words out, which made him suspect that he’d been in the hospital bed for quite a while. But he’d felt a wave of relief when Clint jerked his head up and Phil saw his green-blue eyes, clear, and just the way he remembered them. But he also saw in them a heartbreaking combination of sorrow and relief that had Phil catching his breath, almost afraid to ask what had happened. Clint’s face had shuttered quickly, though, and then he gave Phil a sit-rep, monotone and blank-faced, taking the blame for everything that Loki had done. Of course he did, the idiot.

 

Clint’s been here ever since. He seems… strangely devoted, and Phil’s a little perplexed by it, to be honest. Not that he and Clint aren’t friends. They are. Very close friends, even. You don’t live through life and death situations as often as the two of them and Natasha had, and not form some deeper-than-average bonds. But still. Clint’s been here nearly every single time he’s woken up in the last week since he’s come out of his coma, and while Phil appreciates it, he’s starting to think that maybe it’s a little bit of overkill, especially since the doctors have declared him to be out of the woods.  

 

But for the moment, Clint’s not here, and Phil’s grumbling at the television as he flips through the channels when his door opens slowly and a blonde head pokes itself in. It’s Audrey from Purchasing. Phil perks up and smiles. A while back they had gone out on a couple of dates that never went anywhere, but they remained friendly and Phil genuinely likes her. 

 

“Hello, Phil. May I come in?” she asks tentatively.

 

“Of course,” Phil answers brightly, muting the TV and working to sit up a little higher, then stopping as sharp pain lances through his chest. “It’s good to see you,” he says, trying to smile rather than grimace.

 

“It’s better to see you,” she says, also smiling, but looking very relieved.

 

Phil huffs. “I’m fine.”

 

“You weren’t, though,” she says as she steps close to his bed. “We were all very scared for you, Phil.” Her smile falters and her eye fill with tears.

 

There’s an awkward silence in the room and Phil wonders if Audrey knows about how he had apparently actually died for a couple of minutes, very nearly died several more times, had been in a coma for two weeks, and now faces months of tedious rehabilitation.

 

Phil clears his throat. “Well, it _is_ good to see you Audrey,” he says, moving them past it. “I haven’t had many visitors.” Besides Clint, Natasha’s been by a few times and the Avengers had each poked their heads in. Other than that, it’s only been Nick.

 

Audrey cocks her head in a familiar way that makes her look rather adorable. It was the same gesture that made Phil take notice of her and prompted him to ask her out in the first place; it’s very endearing. Phil tries to remember why things never worked out for them.

 

“Oh, that’s because Agent Barton won’t let anyone in to see you.” She looks quickly over her shoulder at the door. “But I was down in the lobby a little while ago and I saw him leave so I thought I’d chance it.”

 

“What do you mean, Agent Barton won’t let them in?” Phil gives her a quizzical look. “I understood that I wasn’t allowed visitors, except for… the Avengers.” Come to think of it, that is sort of strange.

 

“Really?” Her head cocks in the other directions and Phil suddenly remembers that things didn’t work out between them because he’d started to think she looked a little bit like a bobble-head doll.

 

A moment later he realizes that he’s staring at her head and shakes himself out of his distraction. “Oh, um, yes… something about clearance?”

 

Audrey shrugs. “I don’t think what happened to you is classified. There was no keeping the media out of a story like this so it’s been all over the news. Not to mention the SHIELD gossip network? Everyone knows what happened.”

 

“They do?” Phil asks, puzzled. Hadn’t Clint told him his situation was classified? His memories of the first day or two that he was awake are kind of fuzzy, but he’s sure that’s what Clint had said.

 

“Yes?” she says. Or asks. It comes back to Phil with sudden clarity that another reason he hadn’t asked her out on a third date was her aggravating tendency to make declarative sentences into questions.

 

“So, you were able to just… come in?”

 

“Yes?” she says/asks again. Phil uses nearly all of his rapidly depleting reserves not to wince at the ‘question’. “But like I said, only because Agent Barton left.”

 

Huh.

 

“Well, thank you for visiting. I admit, I’m getting a little bored. How are things going out there?” he asks. Commercials aside, Phil _has_ been watching as much news as he can stay awake for, but three weeks after the battle, it’s mostly devolved into brief summaries and human-interest stories surrounding survivors.  

 

A cloud passes over Audrey’s face. “Things are still pretty bad. I would have tried to sneak in sooner but we’re overwhelmed working day and night requisitioning things for the clean-up and repairs?” Phil can’t stop his face from twitching at the question.

 

“I can imagine,” he answers soberly, wishing he could be of some use instead of stuck in this damned bed.

 

She cocks her head again and looks like she’s about to say something when Clint pushes through the door. When he sees Audrey, he scowls, and Phil finds himself almost laughing at his expression.

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Clint practically snarls at her.

 

“Sorry, Agent Barton,” she squeaks and darts for the door.

 

Phil stares in mild shock. Clint _likes_ Audrey, and she likes him; she bakes him cookies and processes his requisitions before anyone else’s. Phil’s never seen him snap at her like that. It’s so out of character for Clint that he has no idea what to make of it. “Was that really necessary?” Phil asks, but Clint ignores him and starts fussing with the blanket on the bed, tugging it up and tucking it around Phil.

 

Phil makes a wordless noise of complaint (honestly, people have to stop treating him like he’s fragile) and weakly bats Clint’s hand away. “So, Audrey told me there are no restrictions on my visitors,” he narrows his eyes at Clint, scrutinizing him. “What’s going on, Agent?”

 

He sees Clint stiffen. “You need to rest,” he answers, avoiding Phil’s eyes at all costs.  

 

“I am resting. All I’m doing is resting. I don’t see how moving my lips at Audrey or anyone else is going to tire me out any more than moving my lips at you will, and you seem to have no problem with sitting here all day talking to me.” As soon as the words are out, Phil’s eyes get stuck in the down position for a few seconds but he forces them open again, wanting some kind of answer for Clint’s odd behavior.

 

But Barton’s face has that shut-down expression he gets that Phil knows means any meaningful response is off the table. He’d worn it a lot when he and Bobbi were in the throes of their marriage difficulties before their divorce - when Phil had tried to be a friend to Clint but Clint hadn’t wanted to talk to him about it. Phil’s still waiting to hear what kind of deflection Clint comes up with when Nick walks through the door.

 

Before he even says hello, he’s honed in on Clint. “Goddammit, Barton! Stop terrorizing my God damned staff!” he barks as he marches up to Phil’s bed.

 

Clint ignores the censure. “Sir, Agent Coulson is tired. He needs to rest now.”

 

Phil rolls his eyes. If he had more energy he’d take issue with the way Clint seems to think he needs to speak for Phil.

 

Nick slowly turns toward the man. “Oh, really?” he asks with a terrifying smile. “Thank you, Agent, I’ll be sure to take that under advisement,” he says, and pins Clint with his one eye, a clear invitation for Clint to leave.

 

Clint stands his ground and darts his eyes toward Phil and then back at Fury. He hesitates.

 

Fury narrows his eye. “Is there a problem, Agent?”

 

Clint actually glares at the Director – something he’s never seen his agent do - then shoots a conflicted glance over to Phil. “No, Sir,” he says after a moment, then turns sharply and leaves the room.

 

Nick curses under his breath and Phil picks up words like ‘watchdog’ and ‘crazy motherfucker’.  

 

“What’s going on, Marcus?” Phil asks, suddenly very tired.

 

“Your boy needs to get his act together.”

 

“First, I wouldn’t ever let him hear you call him ‘my boy’ if I were you, because I’m not sure I’d even try to stop him from putting an arrow through your good eye,” he tells Nick reproachfully with a scowl. “And second…” Phil sighs and closes his eyes. “…I have no idea what’s going on with him so I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Phil says, then inhales a deep yawn.

 

“Really? No idea?” Nick says, with a hint of that aggravating amusement that says he knows something you don’t know.

 

Phil opens his eyes and cocks his head, then thinks of Audrey and immediately straightens it. “No. No idea. What do _you_ know, Nick?” he asks, suddenly suspicious again.

 

Nick watches him for a moment, then gives Phil a slightly different version of his scary grin. “You know, Cheese, when that doctor comes back, maybe you should ask him to check your eyes.”

 

Phil gives him a perplexed look. “What does that mean?”

 

“Get some rest, Phil. Barton’s right. You need it,” he says before he glides over to the door and disappears.

 

“Everybody’s gone mad,” Phil mutters to himself as he closes his eyes.

 

**

 

Phil’s already asleep when Clint slips back through the door ten seconds after Fury leaves. He takes up his station in the chair beside Phil’s bed, and stares at the other man, trying to unknot the tangle of thoughts in his head.

 

It’s been three weeks since Nat released him from Loki’s hold, they’d saved the world, and gone out for shawarma. Three weeks since they walked out of the Middle Eastern restaurant and Nat told him about Phil. As he took in her words, and looked dazedly at the wreckage all around him, his legs finally gave out. Nat’s voice was there in his ear immediately, telling him over and over that it wasn’t his fault, it was Loki, that he wasn’t to blame and couldn’t take this on himself. But none of her words could stop him from folding in on himself right in the middle of the sidewalk, the full weight of what he’d done bearing down on him.

 

He’d shot Fury, tried to kill Hill – twice - and almost single-handedly took down a helicarrier. Hell, he’d nearly been responsible for the destruction of the entire city of New York. And Phil. He’d killed Phil.

 

He still has no idea how he got to SHIELD Medical, but when he woke up, Nat told him, first, that he’d been out for two days, and second, that Fury had lied to them and Phil wasn’t dead after all: he was one floor down in the Critical Care Unit. Clint had gone there immediately, growling at the medical staff when they’d tried to stop him, remorselessly taking full advantage of their trepidation after the role he’d played in Loki’s melodrama. He’s been either here or out trying to clean up the mess he made ever since.

 

But the thing is, they don’t do this. He and Phil and Nat are close. They care about each other and worry if one of them is hurt. Of course they do. But all three of them are pragmatists and realists, and none of them believe sitting by someone’s bedside can alter the outcome. So they never do. Instead they focus their energy on trying to make the world a little safer so that, hopefully, nothing like it will ever happen again. They visit, when their cohort is awake and needs company, but there are no bedside vigils between them.    

 

But this time… this time, Clint stayed. And he prayed like he’d never prayed in his life – silent mantras to every god he could think of - and then one day, two weeks later, somehow, miraculously, Phil woke up. The doctors say he’s going to be okay, but Clint keeps coming back, keeps staying until Phil wakes up one more time. And he has no idea why.

 

Admittedly, his mind is still overwhelmed with the sheer magnitude of his guilt as he walks through the City and takes in the destruction he caused, and walks through the halls of SHIELD and is reminded of the human toll. The red in Natasha’s ledger’s got nothing on his now. It probably doesn’t help that between helping with the clean-up until his hands shake too much to continue, and then returning to sit with Phil, he’s running on virtually no sleep and only the barest minimum of calories.  He knows his protectiveness is unnecessary and bordering on ridiculous (okay, not bordering on, it _is_ ridiculous), but he can’t stop whatever it is that pulls him here day after day.

 

He’s exhausted, and he can’t concentrate long enough to think it through. He’s just holding on. To life. To guilt. To Phil.


	2. Jealous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks KippyVee for the super fast beta on this chapter!

It feels so good to finally be back to work. Of course, he’s only on limited duty for now – probably will be for at least another month. Phil sighs. Who’s he kidding? It’ll probably be three months – maybe more - before he’s testing as field-ready. He still has a long way to go in his physical recovery.

 

There may be some lingering psych issues, too, but he’s pretty sure he can overcome them without actually _going_ to Psych. He just needs time to get over the fact that he had a spear violently shoved all the way through his chest. Who wouldn’t? And possibly it’s not a great sign that he’s having a recurring dream about Clint and Loki. Okay, maybe it’s a nightmare that wakes him every night with his heart feeling like it’s pounding out of his chest (which is admittedly kind of disturbing, all things considered) because in that dream-world, Natasha isn’t able to ‘cognitively recalibrate’ Clint and is forced to kill him instead. Phil shivers at just the memory.

 

Sometimes he can’t believe how lucky they all are to have escaped the worst possible outcome. Phil has come to appreciate that life doesn’t give you second chances like this very often and he fully intends to take advantage of the one he’s been given. Probably. Some day. Eventually. Although he has no idea what that means in a tangible sense.

 

Until he figures it out, he’s trying to make himself useful by filling some holes that Loki’s attack left in SHIELD by assessing new recruit performance. It’s low impact and only requires a few hours a day, leaving the remainder for Phil to continue his rest and recovery. God, it’s awful.

 

Today, he’s supposed to evaluate pistol skills for a batch of recruits who’re a few weeks into training. He’s purposely lagging behind the group as they pile into the shooting range because they’re just so… _enthusiastic_ , and Phil hardly has the energy for it. They’re pumped up with excitement, happy to be out of the classroom for the day and moving on to more adrenaline-fueled exercises.

 

If there’s a benefit to being a senior agent it’s that you get to work with skilled, experienced agents like Hawkeye and Black Widow and don’t have to deal with new recruits. They’re just so… _young_.

 

When he enters the range, he perks up a little when he spots Hawkeye in the farthest lane, but then feels the tug of disappointment to see that he’s packing up his gear. Phil loves to watch the graceful flow of Clint with his weapon; there’s something rather entrancing about it. But the archer hates an audience - unless it’s him or Natasha - so he no doubt quit his practice because the recruits came in. Phil catches his eye and gives a small nod. Clint’s concerned gaze rakes over his body and Phil gives him a quelling look; he’s _fine._ He’s been out of the hospital for weeks, but Clint sometimes acts as though he’s still on death’s door.

 

The recruits have spotted Hawkeye and are whispering rather unsubtly. God, they’re just so… _green._    Phil sighs and turns reluctantly back to the task at hand. “Mr. Anderson,” he calls. “Would you please show us how many shots it takes you to hit the center ring on the target?” He hands a pistol to the young man, who looks around nervously before stepping forward and taking the gun.

 

Anderson’s an up-and-comer that SHIELD’s had their eye on for a while; military-trained and consistently scoring among the highest in riflery. He’s been surprisingly inconsistent since coming to SHIELD though, and Phil’s been tasked with trying to figure out what the problem is. Could be performance anxiety and if so, he needs to get over that fast. Phil putting him on the spot here should shake him a little and be a good indicator if that’s the problem. Possibly all he needs is a little time to settle in and get rid of his nerves.

 

Or maybe the problem is that any idiot with a good rifle and a high-quality scope can make a great shot. Today’s target is 75 yards out and it’s a lot harder to shoot a pistol at this distance with consistent accuracy.

 

Or an arrow, but that’s probably irrelevant.

 

The young man grips the pistol and sets his stance. “Shooting,” he calls, and fires a single bullet which punches a hole near the middle of the body-target.

 

It’s not a bad shot. It’s well within the smallest oval, probably no more than an inch off dead-center. If he can keep that up, they might not bounce him back to the military. Anderson looks back toward Phil expectantly. He’s probably waiting for Phil to offer some kind of praise. God, they’re just so… _needy_. He wants to roll his eyes, but doesn’t. Instead, he smiles mildly at the man. “Nice shot, Specialist.”

 

The space is fairly quiet, the other trainees murmuring their agreement, when they all hear the distinctive sound of someone racking the slide of a pistol to chamber a first round.

 

“Shooting,” Hawkeye says in a conversational tone, and Phil takes a step back to peer down the aisle just as he hears the familiar retort of a Sig Sauer P229 and fifteen rapid-fire shots echo through the range. He’s about to ask Clint if he’d like to demonstrate technique, but in a flash, Clint drops the clip out of his handgun and slides another home, and says, “shooting”, again. After glancing down the firing lane at the target for a split-second, he turns and smiles at Phil while he fires fifteen more shots. The whole thing doesn’t take more than ten seconds.

 

There is stunned silence in the room.

 

“He missed!” someone gasps behind Phil.

 

Phil hears the shocked whispering and he’s pretty sure Clint does, too. Behind him, Phil can feel the eyes of the entire group of recruits staring at Clint.

 

Clint cocks an eyebrow at Phil, who rolls his eyes pointedly before turning back to the gathered group of trainees, who are still murmuring excitedly. Anderson, in particular, is looking rather smug, no doubt feeling superior because he thinks he showed up Hawkeye on the firing range.   God, they’re all just so… _idiotic._ The murmuring stops as Clint saunters past the group on his way out, his eyes on Phil the entire time.

 

As soon as the door closes behind Clint, the trainees erupt in boisterous congratulatory words and back-slaps for Anderson.

 

“Dude, you’re better than _Hawkeye!_ ”

 

“Did you see that? He missed every shot!”

 

“I didn’t think that was possible!”

 

Phil steps back and squints down the lane for the first time, confirming what he suspected. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he starts and the collected group silences. “Before you get too excited, I might suggest you think again about what just happened and consider other possibilities to the conclusion you’ve reached.” He gives them his best bland, scary-agent smile.

 

The group looks around at one another, questioning and confused. They all stare down the lane Clint was on, looking at the unmarred target, murmuring. God, they’re all so… _oblivious._

 

After a moment, one of the young women finally shifts her gaze down Anderson’s lane. A second later her eyes go wide. “Body on the range, cease fire!” she yells as per range protocol, even though their group is the only one there and no one is shooting. She sprints 75 yards down to the far end where the targets are situated. She’s fast, Phil notes. And possibly more astute than the others; Phil’s going to keep his eye on her.

 

“ _Holy SHIT!_ ” she gasps as she looks behind Anderson’s target. “He put 30 shots right through the same hole as Anderson’s!” she yells to them, pulling the target aside and revealing the high-impact gel behind it that stops the projectiles. It had been unmarred when they began, but now it’s clearly been pulverized by many more than one bullet.

 

Anderson’s face falls and he looks a little stunned. The rest of the recruits chatter excitedly, quickly dismissing their classmate, their respect for Hawkeye clearly renewed. Which it should be; the man is terrifyingly gifted.

 

Phil turns his head and looks up at the gallery at the shadow tucked back in the corner, cocking an eyebrow and trying to suppress the grin that twitches at his lips. A second later, the shadow disappears.

 

He hasn’t the slightest idea what to make of Clint’s behavior. It’s almost like he was _showing off_ , which is… very uncharacteristic. From the time he’d joined SHIELD nearly fifteen years ago, Clint’s never felt a need to prove himself; he knew he was the best in the world and he didn't need validation from anyone. He did his job without flare or drama, and let his skill speak for itself, silencing the skeptics.  

 

Phil supposes that after what happened with Loki, Clint might feel like he needs to prove himself. It’s the only explanation he can come up with for Clint’s performance. The strange thing, though, is that Clint hadn’t given a second glance to the recruits; it was almost as though he was performing for _Phil_ , which doesn’t make any sense at all. Phil knows exactly how good Clint is, and Clint knows he knows.

 

Phil keeps watching the darkened gallery, knowing Clint is likely long gone. Secretly, a little part of Phil loved Clint’s display of skill. The man’s extraordinary and uncanny abilities have always made Phil’s stomach flip a little, from the first time he saw 20-year-old Hawkeye split an arrow with an arrow. He should probably admonish Clint for his little exhibition here today. But thirty bullets through a single hole at 75 yards, and from an oblique angle? There’s no way Phil would criticize _anyone_ for that.

 

Phil turns back to the recruits who are now debating if it was somehow a trick. God, they’re just so… _annoying._    He sighs. He needs a nap. Goddamn it.

 

**

 

Clint watches from the gallery as the female trainee sprints down the lane and reveals his prowess. He has no idea why he had put on that display a few moments ago; he’s never felt a need to prove himself to anyone before.

 

But, nice shot? _Nice shot?_ The first time Phil had said that to him, he’d just split an arrow with an arrow from 200 yards. One lousy bullet at least 7/8 th-inch off the mark… pssshht. Please! Thirty bullets through the same hole are nice shots. What that kid did was mediocre shooting at best.

 

Phil turns and looks his way, and even though Clint knows he probably can’t see him, he gives a small salute, and slips quietly out of the gallery, smug grin still on his face.


	3. Mother Hen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to JD45 for bouncing ideas around with me and inspiration for parts of this chapter.

Phil sets the coffee and donuts on his desk and settles deep into his chair with a contented sigh before he turns on his computer to work on his latest recruit evaluations. It’s not his favorite thing in the world, but at least it gives him _something_ to do until he tests as field-ready again. And it’s important, he reminds himself. SHIELD lost a lot of valuable personnel in Loki’s attack and they need to start rebuilding the ranks. Plus, staying busy keeps his mind from wandering to other less pleasant things, like how incredibly painful it is to be stabbed in the chest, or how far he really has to go in his recovery, or how, when Clint thinks no one is looking, he sometimes wears a haunted expression that makes something inside Phil ache.

 

He starts with an easy one: Mendez. He’s been watching her closely since the day on the shooting range when she was the only one of the bunch to figure out that Clint hadn’t missed his target. A few minutes into giving her a better-than-average rating, there’s a knock on his door. “Come,” Phil calls out, never taking his eyes from the computer screen.

 

He hears Barton’s familiar tread and feels a reflexive fluttering in his chest that he never wants to scrutinize too closely. A few seconds later, a tray full of food is deposited on his desk. Phil looks from the tray up to Clint, then back down at the food. Then back up at Clint. “Who are you and what have you done with my agent?” he deadpans.

 

Clint huffs a loud breath through his nose.

 

“What’s this?”

 

“I brought you breakfast,” Clint answers, as though it’s obvious. Which, okay, it is.

 

“Thank you, but I already have breakfast.” Phil tips his head slightly toward the coffee and donuts sitting by his elbow.

 

Clint scowls. “You’re still recovering.”

 

“Yes, I am,” Phil acknowledges, seeing no correlation between that and the unappealing-looking food in front of him.

 

Clint makes an exasperated noise. “You need to eat healthier.”

 

“And that’s what this is?” Phil has his doubts.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you sure?” Phil pokes at the white and green blob on the plate with his finger. It’s still piping hot.

 

“Egg white and spinach omelet,” Clint explains and Phil crinkles his nose in displeasure. Clint huffs. “Egg whites have a lot of protein without the fat and cholesterol of the yokes. The spinach is high in iron.”

 

“And I need that why?”

 

“The protein will give you more energy. The spinach...” Clint pauses and Phil lifts a questioning eyebrow. Clint shrugs. “You’re still kind of pale. If you’re anemic, the spinach will help.”

 

“I see.” Phil is starting to find this slightly entertaining. “And the yogurt?”

 

“Greek yogurt. It has a lot of probiotics,” Clint answers. When Phil just stares at him, Clint rolls his eyes and continues. “All those antibiotics you’ve been on have probably done a number on the flora in your gut--”

 

“The flora in my gut?” Phil says with amusement in his voice.

 

“Yeah,” Clint answers, nodding, looking and sounding completely serious.

 

Okay.  Phil can play along.  He eyes the small glass of red juice on the tray. “I prefer grapefruit,” he says, but Clint is shaking his head before he even finishes.

 

“No grapefruit. Of any kind.  It can interfere with the absorption of more than one of your meds. You shouldn’t have it at all as long as you’re still taking them.”

 

“And so this is…” he says, then takes a small sip and visibly shudders as the sourness assaults him.

 

“Unsweetened cranberry juice. It’s got a ton of nutrients to boost overall health and help fight infection,” Clint tells him.

 

“I don’t have any infections,” Phil points out, clearing his throat and then taking a sip of coffee to try to get rid of the awful taste of the juice.

 

“You’re still healing,” Clint retorts. “And ‘boosts overall health’,” he repeats, with air quotes to emphasize the point, and as near as Phil can tell, he's not joking.

 

Phil stares at Clint for a long moment, trying to process the fact that Clint Barton is giving him healthy-eating tips (and using _air quotes,_ for god's sake). Clint watches him placidly. “You’re being ironic, right?” Phil eventually concludes.

 

“What?” Clint furrows his brow.

 

“If there is one person on this earth who has worse eating habits than me, it’s you.” Clint starts to protest but Phil cuts him off. “What did you have for breakfast?”

 

Clint hesitates. “That’s beside the point.”

 

“No, I don’t think it is. Go on, tell me.   What did you eat this morning?”

 

Clint firms his mouth before answering. “Half of a left-over burrito.”

 

“Did you heat it up?”

 

There’s a beat before Clint answers. “No. But that doesn’t make it unhealthy,” Clint says, crossing his arms defensively.

 

Phil snorts. “No, you’re right. What makes it unhealthy is the beef and the double cheese, plus the cup of sour cream you dump on it.” He knows how Clint likes his burritos.

 

Clint scowls at him. “I didn’t almost die a few weeks ago,” he points out.

 

“It’s been nine weeks, and I’m nearly fully recovered,” Phil asserts, which, might not be technically true, but it's close enough.  He tips a curious gaze at Clint. “Barton, are you mother-henning me?” he asks bemusedly.

 

Clint’s face flushes. “Fine, whatever. Don’t eat it.” He reaches for the tray.

 

“No,” Phil says quickly, covering the plate protectively with his arm. He very suddenly doesn’t want Clint to take his gift back; he doesn’t really want the food, but he wants Clint to take it back even less. “I _am_ hungry. Thank you, Clint.”

 

“You’re welcome,” he says, looking inordinately pleased, and something in Phil warms.

 

Phil looks at the food and picks up his fork. When he looks back up, Clint’s already slipping out the door. After he leaves, Phil pokes at the omelet, then glances at the donuts. He stares at them for a long moment, then sighs and tosses them into the garbage. If Clint can make the effort to have Marla make special food for him in the cafeteria and bring it all the way to his office to try to get him to eat better, then he can make the effort to actually eat said food.

 

He takes a small bite and screws up his face at the taste, then sighs and takes another bite, washing it down with his coffee. He’s not sure he’s going to be able to make himself drink the juice, but he means to try. And really, Clint’s not wrong about any of it. He is slightly anemic, according to his doctor. And he knows he has more stamina if he eats more protein. And, okay, yes, one of his doctors had suggested that he start taking probiotics after having been on antibiotics for so long. Phil had absolutely meant to do all of those things, he's just never gotten around to it.  

 

He’s half way through forcing the omelet down his throat when Nick walks in and sits in the chair in front of his desk without waiting for an invitation. He looks at the tray of food with a puzzled expression. “Should I be looking for a pod in the basement?” he quips.

 

Phil takes another bite of the omelet and shoots a look at the other man. “You’re hilarious.” Damn! Why hadn’t he thought of that one to use on Clint?

 

“Are you actually going to eat that? Because if you are, then I _am_  gonna have to start watching for aliens exploding out of my staff.”

 

“Barton brought it,” he tells Nick. “Apparently it’s good for me.”

 

Fury studies him for a few seconds and then his whole face contorts and he guffaws loudly.

 

“What?” Phil asks, feeling defensive and it bothers him that he doesn’t even know why.

 

“You seriously don’t see it do you?” he asks with an unnerving grin.

 

“What I see is an agent who blames himself for something that wasn’t his fault. He thinks he needs to atone for what Loki did. If this,” Phil sweeps his hand over the plate, “makes him somehow feel better, then the least I can do is eat it.”

 

“Sure, you go with that,” Nick answers, with mischief in his eye.

 

“If you have something to say, Marcus, then say it,” Phil sighs wearily. He doesn’t have the energy to puzzle out Barton’s _or_ Fury’s behavior.

 

Nick grins at him. “ _Nah._ It’s much more fun to watch you work it out for yourself,” he says, then stands and cackles all the way out the door.

 

Phil glares after him and aggressively stabs another piece of omelet and shoves it into his mouth. It still tastes bad, but he chews determinedly. Clint and Nick are both behaving very oddly but Phil has no explanation for it. He’s pretty sure he’ll be able to figure it out eventually, once he doesn’t have to use all of his reserve store of energy just to concentrate enough to write a trainee evaluation. But he’s still damn good at compartmentalizing, so he turns back to the evals on his computer. A couple minutes later he’s chewing absently, the awful taste of the food forgotten, and he’s so completely focused on his work that all thoughts of Clint and Nick are forgotten.

 

**

 

Clint grabs the mostly-empty box of four-day-old pizza out of the refrigerator and tosses it on the counter, then pushes aside the other take-out containers until he finds a beer. He uses the edge of the counter to snap the cap off. The sharp hiss as it flips free is somehow deeply satisfying. He takes a long pull off the bottle as he opens the second drawer down, then roots around, digging through the sea of take-out menus. He finds what he’s looking for at the very bottom, under menus from more than one restaurant that he knows have been closed for a few years. He should probably clean out that drawer.

 

And he could use a shower. Badly. But he's alone here and so he can’t be bothered, and instead sits on a stool with a tired sigh. After delivering breakfast to Phil that morning, Clint had spent the day working on the on-going clean-up in Manhattan. SHIELD’s still not sure what to do with him after the whole 'being Loki's puppet thing' so he's been effectively benched, and there’s been nothing on the Avengers’ radar, so he’d loaded rubble into trucks for fifteen hours. It’s not much in the big picture of the destruction he wrought, but he needs to do _something._ His arms ache with the burn of sorely overused muscles, but as far as penance goes, it’s not even close to enough.  

 

As he sits at the small breakfast bar in his apartment perusing the _SHIELD Nutritional Guide for Effective Recovery and Long-Term Health,_ he distractedly reaches into the box and grabs a slice of the cold, meat-lovers’ pizza (with double meat and cheese), and takes an enormous bite (it's possibly he hasn't eaten anything since his leftover burrito early this morning).  He chews mechanically as he studies the Guide, reading through the entire thing. It has all kinds of good tips about healthy eating and even a week’s worth of suggested menus. It’d probably be pushing it to try to get Phil to eat three-squares a day, but maybe tomorrow he can get Marla-in-the-kitchen to make ‘sample lunch #1’ for Phil; steamed fish over quinoa, and Brussel sprouts. Ugh, wait, no. Brussel sprouts are disgusting. He would never be that cruel to Phil, no matter how much of a ‘super food’ the Guide says they are. Maybe, kale, instead. According to the pamphlet, leafy green vegetables are loaded with B vitamins. Clint smiles with satisfaction as he shoves the entire crust of the slice of pizza into his mouth. Yeah, kale… that’s better.

 


	4. In Defense of Honor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to JD45 who gave me just the spark I needed to tie up this chapter!

 

It’s become a routine now; Clint badgers Marla into making a special lunch for Phil and then he badgers Phil into eating it. They usually eat in his office but Phil feels a need to stretch his legs today so he suggests they walk down to the mess instead. They get their food and take a table in the corner, behind a large pillar. These days, they both find it preferable to go unnoticed; Phil, because he’s tired of all the concerned looks, and Clint, because ever since Loki… well, suffice it to say, Phil thinks Clint’s an idiot on that score.  

 

Phil tucks into his loaded salad with broiled chicken (lightly dressed). He’s surprised to find that he actually kind of likes it. What’s more surprising is that Barton is sitting across from him eating the same, and he seems to like it, too. A second later, Clint’s face contorts and, okay, maybe ‘likes it’ is a stretch, but at least he’s not complaining about eating it.

 

When Clint had shown up in his office the week before with a plate of steamed fish and quinoa, Phil had taken one look and told Clint that the only way he was going to eat it was if Clint did, too. Hawkeye had left his office and Phil had assumed he wouldn’t be seeing the man again any time soon. But twenty minutes later, Clint came back with an identical plate, gave Phil the hot one, then sat down and started eating. What else could Phil do but humor him?

 

Phil’s seen Hawkeye push more leafy-green vegetables into his mouth in the last week (since he apparently appointed himself as Phil’s personal nutritional advisor) than he has in the 15 years he’s known the man. Except maybe for that year when Bobbi was hounding him to eat better. At the time, when Phil had raised a questioning eyebrow at his asset, Clint had shrugged and Phil thought he saw the hint of a blush. “She said she loves me and she wants me to stay alive a little longer.” His pleasure at the mere thought of someone caring that much about him was unmistakable. Phil sighs at the memories of Clint’s previous marriage and actively pushes the thoughts aside.

 

Phil’s enjoying his lunch and his lunch company when nearby voices filter through and he realizes that people are talking about him _._ He stops chewing for a moment and focuses on the conversation.

 

“ …wish we’d gotten a better recruitment trainer.”

 

“You’re such an ass, Burkhorst.”

 

“I’m just saying out loud what we’re all thinking and you know it.”

 

“No, we’re not all thinking that. Coulson seems like a good teacher to me.”

 

“He’s a suit,” Burkhorst says dismissively. “A washed-up suit. He’ll probably never be able to re-pass the field qualification tests. You know what they say, those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.”

 

One of the group groans. “That’s such bullshit. I mean, if that’s the case, then who taught the people who are so good at ‘doing’?”

 

They move too far away for Phil to catch any more of the conversation and he starts chewing again. When he looks over at Clint, the man is practically vibrating with anger.

 

“Clint. It’s okay. They’re not entirely wrong and you and I both know it. I’m _not_ back up to speed here.”

 

“You’re still recovering,” Clint grits out through clenched teeth.

 

“Let it go, Clint,” Phil coaxes. He’s not ashamed; he had a spear brutally shoved through his chest, after all. He’s still recovering and may never get back to where he was. Frankly, most days he’s just happy to be alive. And really, he has nothing to prove to a bunch of green trainees.

 

Clint lets it go but his eyes track the group out the door. That probably doesn’t bode well.

 

**

 

Phil walks into the training room, eyes skimming over the assembled group looking for Chen but he doesn’t see him. “Good afternoon. Today we are going to begin working on the basics of hand-to-hand fighting. Unfortunately, as much as I’d like to, I’m not able to give practical instruction at this time, so I’ve asked Agent Chen to assist us today. He should be here shortly.”

 

A few seconds later, the door to the gym opens and Hawkeye saunters through. “Agent Barton,” Phil says with mild surprise. “What can we do for you?”

 

“Chen asked me if I could stand in for him today. He’s… busy.” Phil narrows his eyes at Clint, who puts on an innocent face. Phil raises an eyebrow at Clint, sending a silent question. _What are you up to?_ Hawkeye gives him a bland smile in return.

 

Phil huffs and turns back to the recruits. “Alright,” Phil says. “Apparently, we have a slight change of plans. Agent Barton will be demonstrating hand-to-hand technique today. Agent Barton?”

 

Clint drops his gear and steps forward. “I’ll need a volunteer to help me demonstrate. How about you?” Clint says, immediately pointing to Burkhorst.

 

Warning bells scream in Phil’s head and he knows he should probably put an immediate stop to whatever it is Clint is planning, but he doesn’t. Despite his better judgement, he’s curious to see what Barton does.

 

Burkhorst shoots a smug grin to his cohort and steps forward. “Sure.”

 

“Great,” Clint answers, a friendly smile on his face, but Phil knows this is his wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing smile, and he groans internally. This idiot has no idea what he’s getting into.

 

“So, Recruit… what’s your name?”

 

“Burkhorst, Sir.”

 

“Burkhorst. Good. Okay. So, Burkhorst, do you have much experience in hand-to-hand?”

 

“Top of my class at Quantico,” he answers, still looking smug.

 

“Alright, great! So, I don’t need to pull my punches, right?” he says, amiably faking a jab at the man. Burkhorst flinches and his smile falters.

 

There’s that wolf’s smile again. This is going to be bad. Phil should definitely step in, but Burkhorst is arrogant and it might not be the worst thing in the world for him to learn a little humility.

 

“Okay, let’s start with the basics: anticipating your opponent’s attack.”

 

Clint smiles at the assembled group then shifts his attention back to Burkhorst and Phil sees the grin turn more feral. Hawkeye raises his right arm and Burkhorst’s eyes follow it, only to have Clint simply flick his foot out and buckle the recruit’s knee. Burkhorst falls to the ground in a heap.

 

“See, right there,” Clint says to the other recruits. “He wasn’t anticipating.” Clint smiles down at Burkhorst. “Sorry. I know I caught you off guard with that one.” He reaches out a hand to pull the other man up.

 

Burkhorst grips Clint’s fist and Clint pulls him up, then twists and tosses him to the ground again in a simple move that any idiot should have seen coming a mile away. “Now, _that_ one, you should have anticipated,” Clint taunts, a dark expression on his face.

 

Burkhorst gets up slowly, swallowing noticeably.

 

After thirty minutes of using Burkhorst to demonstrate various offensive attacks (each one increasingly complex and painful for the trainee), Clint stares down at where the man is sprawled on the ground.  “You look tired. Are you tired, Burkhorst? You need to stop?” Clint gives him a positively insincere smile.

 

The recruit looks worn and he winces noticeably as he stands.

 

“Sir,” one of the other recruits steps forward. “I can stand in.”

 

It’s Mendez again. Phil adds ‘team player’ to her ‘pro’ column.

 

“How about that, Burkhorst. You need your classmate to step in for you?”

 

He sticks out his chin defiantly, glaring at Clint. “I’m fine,” he asserts.

 

Even if he weren’t, the way Clint framed the question made it virtually impossible for Burkhorst to step out. Still, Phil puts a ‘con’ tick in his mental file; Burkhorst is too proud for his own good.  

 

“Okay, then, I’ll tell you what. You initiate the attack now; I’ll demonstrate defensive moves.” Clint stands back a step and spreads his arms wide in a ‘come at me’ gesture.

 

Burkhorst takes a breath and then crouches a little and circles Clint; Clint turns with him. A few seconds later, the recruit lashes out, but Clint easily side-steps the attack and the next instant, Burkhorst is back on the mat.

 

After another half hour of Burkhorst going on the offensive, only to land flat on his back (or face) every time, Clint apparently decides that the trainee has had enough. Or maybe Clint has. Either way, the ‘demonstration’ is over. Burkhorst gets up slowly, his body visibly stiff and Phil has no doubt that the man will barely be able to move tomorrow. There’s not a single, lasting mark on him, though. He stumbles over to the rest of the group, who all seem a little unsure of what to make of the previous hour’s instruction and are murmuring among themselves.        

 

“By the way,” Clint says, and everyone quickly stills. “Everything I showed you here today, I learned from Agent Coulson over there,” Clint nods toward Phil. “You should count yourselves lucky to have him as your recruit-class trainer.”

 

The trainees all stare at Phil and he really wishes he could roll his eyes. Instead, he dismisses the group and they start to filter toward the door. Before they get there, though, Clint stops them. “Hey, recruit!” Clint calls out, and the group turns as one. He pins Burkhorst with a steely glare. “There’s a saying…” Clint starts, “…those who can, do. Those who can’t, run their mouths and are just generally assholes.” He’s calm but his face is pure animus, and Burkhorst flushes a deep red before he pushes through the crowd and out the door. The others follow quickly behind.

 

Clint flicks a glance at Phil and then turns and starts to walk across the room.

 

“That was unnecessary,” Phil points out.

 

Clint grabs his gear bag. “That guy’s a dick. He needed to be taken down a peg.”

 

Phil watches as Clint grabs a bottle of water and drinks it all down in one go; it’s the only indication Phil’s seen that Clint just exerted himself in any way. He’s perplexed. Clint never gets this bothered when people are talking about him, and god knows there’s been a lot of talk about Hawkeye since Loki’s attack. The only time he’s really seen Clint get like this was when someone told him that another agent questioned whether Mockingbird really had the skills or if she was just advancing because of her relationship with Hawkeye. After he’d heard that, he’d sought out the indiscreet agent and took him apart, piece by piece.

 

Huh. “Clint, were you defending my honor here today?”

 

“Of course not, Sir. You would never need anyone to do that for you,” Clint says, stuffing his towel into his bag, but avoiding Phil’s eyes.

 

“I’m not worried about what a group of recruits think about me and you shouldn’t let it bother you, either,” he assures his friend.

 

Clint finally turns and locks eyes with him. “They should have more respect for you.”

 

There’s a sudden tension in the room that Phil has no explanation for. He feels himself flush and he quickly breaks eye contact, his glance skittering toward the entrance. When he looks back at Clint, he’s squatting down next to his bag, zipping it up. Phil clears his throat. “Will Agent Chen be back with us next time or do you have more instruction you want to give?”

 

Clint stands up and swings his bag over his shoulder. “I think I got my point across.”

 

Phil stares after him when he leaves, not sure if he should pursue it further. He’s part fondly-amused and part disconcerted - at Clint for doing what he did, but also at himself for his moment of schadenfreude. In the end, it’s easier not to examine either of their behavior too closely and so he doesn't.

 

**

 

Clint tosses a crumpled fifty-dollar-bill onto the table. “Thanks,” he says as he sets his tray down and drops into the chair.

 

Chen looks up from his tablet as he pockets the money. “Is Coulson pissed?” he asks as he sits back, but he doesn’t sound particularly worried.

 

“Nah. You’re good,” Clint assures him, then shovels a forkful of macaroni and cheese into his mouth. God, that’s good.

 

Chen’s about to say something more when a shadow falls across the table and both men look up to see Fury standing over them. Whatever Chen was going to say never materializes. “Sir?” Chen says instead.

 

“Agent,” he says, staring at Chen. He doesn’t elaborate but his intent is clear.

 

“Right,” Chen says, then scoops up his tray and tablet and disappears.

 

Fury takes the seat Chen vacated and eyes Clint, who stares back as he chews his food.

 

“If you’re done playing with the recruits, Barton, I could use an agent.”

 

Clint leans over his plate and shakes his head. “They’re not ready,” he says absently, then takes another huge bite.  He’s distracted by how deliciously not-healthy it tastes when he realizes that Fury hasn’t responded and looks up. Fury raises the eyebrow above his eyepatch at him, and that’s just… weird.

 

Clint sits up straight and swallows the thick mass in his mouth. “You’re putting me back on active duty?”

 

“If you think you can tear yourself away from your current… preoccupation,” he says with a note of humor in his voice.

 

Clint has no idea what that means. He pushes his plate aside. “When do I leave?”

 

“Don’t get too excited, Agent. This is a recon job. Two weeks watching the site to see who come and goes. You will not, under any circumstances, engage. Am I clear?”

 

“Do not engage. Copy that, Sir.”

 

Fury eyes him for anther moment. “Go,” he says, with a small jerk of his head. “You leave at 1800 hours.”

 

Clint bolts. He’s got a half hour to get his gear and get to the plane, and adrenaline is singing in his veins already.

 

**

 

Fury watches him go. He almost regrets sending him out because watching Coulson and Barton stumble around their repressed emotions is the best entertainment he’s had in years. But he needs the best set of eyes he has on this mission and that's still Hawkeye, hands down, even if the idiot is completely blind to what’s right in front of him.


	5. Jealous (again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to KippyVee for the quick beta work. And to JD45 for early draft review and helpful feedback.

Clint’s not lurking. He doesn’t lurk. Medical just released him and he can’t help it if he happens to be walking by Phil’s office when Phil’s talking to Sitwell. And that Phil’s office door is open a couple of inches and that if Clint stands just so, he can happen to see a reflection of the two men in the water cooler in the hall. Totally not his fault.

 

“Quit complaining,” he hears Sitwell tell Phil.

 

Phil groans.

 

“You’re lucky to be alive, Phil.”

 

“I don’t feel lucky.”

 

“Seriously, you’re acting like a child, and since you’re the one who scheduled your fitness test to be in three weeks, you should stop complaining.”

 

Clint hears Phil grunt unhappily.

 

“Okay,” Sitwell shrugs. “No skin off my nose. I love that you’re stuck on desk duty. They give you all the shit jobs to do instead of me. How are those recruit evals going, by the way?”

 

“I hate you.” Phil glares at him. “And I know what you’re doing.”

 

“No you don’t. And is it working?”

 

“No.”

 

“Look Phil, if you want to get back in the field, you’ve got to get over this last hump. If you can’t manage an eight-minute mile, you shouldn’t be out there and you know it,” Sitwell says more seriously.

 

Phil makes an unhappy noise.

 

“Maybe what you need is a running buddy,” Sitwell suggests.

 

“A running buddy,” Phil says dubiously.

 

“Yeah, you know, someone to run with you. Keep you motivated. _Make_ you go even when you don’t want to.”

 

“Which is always,” Phil points out.

 

“How about Hawkeye? The two of you have been spending a lot of time together lately.”

 

Phil blinks and there’s a beat before he answers. “No, we haven’t.”

 

Sitwell just stares at him.

 

Phil clears his throat. “Hawkeye’s out on a mission. Regardless, Barton doesn’t jog, he… parkours. The man’s a former circus acrobat, it’s how he,” Phil waves his hand in a vague gesture, “interacts with his environment.”

 

Clint frowns. He can jog. If he’s motivated.

 

“Well, be his parkour buddy, then.”

 

“I couldn't even jog a mile right now, Jasper. You think I could vault over things and run up the sides of buildings?” Phil retorts.

 

Sitwell considers him for a moment. “You’re right. Maybe jazzercize is more your speed. You used to do that, right?”

 

“I might actually kill you.”

 

Clint sniggers quietly and sees Jasper grin. “Come on, Phil. You need to build your stamina.”

 

“You’re so helpful, maybe _you_ could run with me.”

 

Sitwell snorts.

 

“When was the last time you made an eight-minute mile?”

 

“When I had to requalify after I broke my leg in Bolivia.”

 

“That was…” Phil pauses and thinks for a second. “… _2005_.”

 

“Yep,” Sitwell says happily. “Maybe one of your new recruits would run with you. I’m sure there’s at least one suck-up in the group.”

 

“Ugh. I couldn’t stand to look at those earnest, enthusiastic faces that early in the morning. Give me jaded and cynical any day.”

 

Clint smirks.

 

“Hey, what about--? No, never mind.”

 

“What?”

 

“Well, I was going to suggest Rogers, since he likes to run, but you said no earnestness in the morning.”

 

Clint stiffens when he sees Phil sit up and look interested. Sitwell sees it, too, and grins. “Maybe earnest isn’t so bad if it comes in the form of Captain America,” he ribs Phil.

 

But Phil slumps again and makes a dismissive gesture. “He’d run circles around me.”

 

Sitwell rolls his eyes. “He runs circles around everyone. Come on, what have you got to lose? I hear he feels pretty bad that it took you getting sort-of killed for the Avengers to all play nice and save the world.”

 

Phil scowls. “I’m not going to trade on Captain America’s guilt and sense of duty.”

 

“Why the hell not?”

 

“Because that’s exactly what Fury did,” Phil snaps.

 

Sitwell brushes it off. “Oh, come on, Phil. It wouldn’t even be like that. Rogers is a nice guy. He’d probably be happy to help you out. It would be like the dogs at the racetrack chasing the mechanical bunnies. Chasing Captain America – what better incentive could there be for you?”

 

“You’re an ass,” Phil says, but he’s clearly warming to the idea.

 

“That’s my boy!”

 

“I haven’t said yes,” Phil points out.

 

“Yes, you have,” Jasper says gleefully. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll even go ask him for you if you want.”

 

Phil rolls his eyes. “I don’t need you to play matchmaker, Jasper.”

 

Sitwell snorts. “That’s not what Fury says.”

 

“What?” Phil asks, sounding perplexed. Sitwell waves him off.

 

Phil pauses. “I don’t want to embarrass myself. Maybe I’ll… I’ll run for a week and get past that first hurdle and then see if he’s interested.”

 

“Good idea!” Sitwell says brightly, and Phil gives him a sheepish grin.

 

Clint glowers and slips away down the hall.

 

**

 

Phil’s alarm clock goes off an hour earlier than usual and he hits the snooze alarm. Three times. It’s not that he doesn’t like early mornings. Normally he has no problem with them. It’s just that he’s dreading today. The first three days when you haven’t exercised in a long time are the most unpleasant, and he hasn’t attempted any real cardio workout since before Loki. Or does it count as a cardio workout if you’re not actually moving but stress and adrenaline have your pulse up over 150 for a sustained period? He’s not sure his heartrate dipped below that from the minute Hawkeye was taken until his heart stopped beating altogether.  

 

He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees as he sighs, trying to shake away the lingering discomfort of the night’s slate of dreams. The nightmares about Loki eviscerating him are becoming less frequent (he knew he just needed a little time to get over that), but for some reason, the ones about Clint are becoming more and more terrifying. Psych could probably tell him what they mean. He really should make an appointment, especially since they have to clear him before he can go back on active duty. He’ll do it. One of these days.  

 

He gets up and shuffles over to the bathroom and relieves himself, then squeezes a glob of toothpaste onto his brush. As he brushes, he stares at himself in the mirror, contemplating second chances. He still doesn’t know what to make of this one he’s been given. He wishes he’d woken up with a clear understanding of what he’d been missing in his life and how to go about taking advantage of the new-found opportunity to do something about it. It’s strange, though, because more and more, he doesn’t feel like he’s missing anything at all. After a couple minutes of distracted brushing, Phil spits and rinses his mouth with no greater insight than he started with.     

 

Phil goes back to his room and dresses, then eyes his coffee maker wistfully as he walks past it, and grudgingly heads out of his apartment. When he gets outside, he jumps when Clint pushes off from where he’s leaning against the wall next to the entrance.

 

“Hello, Sir.”

 

“Jesus, Clint, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Phil says, his heart pounding in his chest. But he regrets it immediately when he sees the stricken look on Clint’s face. “Oh, no! I just meant… sorry, I’m fine, you just startled me,” he rambles, trying to reassure his friend that his heart’s not actually going to give out. But Clint still looks guilty and like he might throw up and… beat up. There’s a vicious looking bruise wrapping around his left eye (which is nearly swollen shut), and a line of stiches on his jaw. Without thinking, Phil lifts his hand to Clint’s face, but stops before touching him and then quickly drops it, embarrassed and not sure why he would do such a thing. “What happened? I thought you were on a milk-run?”

 

“Yeah, well, unfortunately the assholes I was surveilling didn’t get that memo.” He glances down at Phil’s hand where it’s dropped back to his side, and then back up.

 

Phil gives him a critical once-over. “Anything else I should know about?”

 

“I’m fine, Sir.”  

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Clint clears his throat. “I, uh… I heard you need a running partner.”

 

Phil narrows his eyes. “Did Jasper send you?”

 

Clint shrugs noncommittally.

 

“You hate running,” Phil observes with suspicion.  Bobbi used to drag Clint out running.  He went, but it was obvious he only did it to please her. 

 

“I don’t know where you got that idea, Sir. I don’t believe I’ve ever said that to you,” Clint answers, face betraying nothing.

 

Phil pointedly raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t have to say anything, you’ve always been able to make your opinions perfectly clear in other ways.”

 

Clint’s lips quirk up at the corners. “I think you may have formed a mistaken impression, Sir.”

 

He could continue to argue the point, but on the other hand, Clint’s here and Phil enjoys his company, so why look a gift-horse in the mouth? But he reconsiders the black bruises on Clint’s face. “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for you to be running if you’re injured.”

 

Clint rolls his eyes. “I’m not injured, I have a couple bruises. I think I’ll survive.”

 

Phil rubs the back of his neck. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, giving Hawkeye one last out.

 

Clint shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

 

Phil hesitates, but then sighs. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

 

Clint smiles and they start a slow trot down the sidewalk. They run three miles, with Phil needing to stop every half-mile or so to walk for a stretch. Clint keeps pace with him, slows when he slows, walks when he walks, stops when he stops. They don’t talk – not that Phil really even could with how winded he is – but Clint encourages him with his quiet presence. Before he knows it, they’re back at his apartment, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as Phil had thought it would be.

 

He invites Clint up for coffee but he shakes his head. “Thanks, Sir, but I still need to debrief and Hill will have my head if I’m not there soon.” he says, then gives a small salute as he trots away. Phil watches him go and twenty feet down the sidewalk he spins and jogs backward as he grins and yells to Phil, “Good job today, Boss! See you later!” Then he turns and Phil watches as he gracefully thief-vaults over the hood of a car parked in the street and disappears around a corner.

 

Later, Phil is unaccountably disappointed as he drinks his coffee alone.

 

**

 

Clint vaults over the car and darts down the block. As soon as he’s around the corner, though, he doubles over, collapsing against the side of a building. He wraps an arm gingerly around his torso and pants shallowly. _Fuck._ His face is throbbing, and the bruises on his ribs and shoulder burn painfully, every breath feeling like someone is stabbing him. He’s actually really fucking thankful that Coulson was moving like molasses in winter because Clint probably couldn’t have run any faster.

 

Clint’s no fan of running. And it’s not particularly pleasant when he’s injured. But if someone is going to run with Coulson it’s sure as hell not going to be Rogers. He’s got nothing personal against Cap, the guy is genuinely nice. But when they’d pulled him out of the ice six months ago, muted alarms bells had started going off in Clint’s head. And the idea of him and Phil jogging together… well, the thought of it makes Clint uneasy in a why he can’t explain.

 

He waits until his breathing evens out a little and his side isn’t screaming at him quite so loudly, then he straightens up and begins a slow walk to the subway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should have the last chapter up next weekend. :)


	6. When a Scone is Not Just a Scone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to 3White_Mage3 for making a wonderful, generous donation to an important human rights organization in exchange for this fic. I hope this was what you were looking for and it hit the right mark!
> 
> Thanks to JD45 for tons of helpful feedback during the writing of this fic. And to KippyVee for her much-appreciated beta skills.

“Hey, Phil,” Clint says, and Phil shoots a quick glance up to see Clint standing in his door with smile on his face and a plate in his hands. In the back of his mind he registers mild surprise; Clint usually arrives with lunch, not breakfast.

 

“Morning,” he says, unable to stop his own smile. He turns back to the screen in front of him; one last evaluation to finish and he’ll be done with this group – and this assignment – for good. Only two of the recruits have cut muster as far as he’s concerned: Mendez, who’s been a standout since day-one; and, Oliver, a quiet but competent recruit coming over from the Merchant Marine.

 

Clint walks forward and sets the plate on Phil’s desk, removing the wrapping from the top.

 

“What’s this?” Phil asks, excited by what he sees. “They don’t look very healthy. Unless they’re gluten-free. Or made with applesauce instead of butter.” He’s suddenly not quite as excited.

 

Clint huffs. “Currant scones. Loaded with flour and fat.”

 

Phil lifts an eyebrow. Current scones are his favorite.

 

“To celebrate. I heard you ran your mile in 7:48 _and_ got cleared by Psych.”

 

“Word travels fast.” Phil grins, though; he’s back on active duty.

 

Clint shrugs. “Eh, you know how this place is.”

 

“Mm,” Phil acknowledges. SHIELD agents will never give up their secrets in the field, but internal gossip is another thing altogether. He eyes the plate of unevenly-shaped lumps appreciatively before grabbing one – it’s still warm - and sniffing it. It smells delicious. “You know, I owe you a debt of thanks. I probably wouldn’t have passed the fitness test if it weren’t for you.”

 

“Of course you would have,” Clint counters.

 

Phil isn’t convinced that’s true. Running with Hawkeye every morning gave him extra motivation not to humiliate himself so he pushed himself hard – definitely harder than if he’d been running on his own. Not to mention the fact that left to his own devices, Phil would have been subsisting on coffee and donuts from the vending machine down the hall. There’s no doubt in his mind that he’s felt better and recovered faster because of the healthy food Clint’s been bringing him daily for the last couple of months. There’s no point in arguing about it, though. “Nonetheless, thank you. I appreciate your support though all of this.”

 

It looks like Clint actually blushes a little at that.

 

“Aren’t you going to have one?” Phil asks, gesturing toward the scones.

 

“Nah. They’re for you.”

 

“I’m happy to share,” he says, then breaks off a piece and pops it into his mouth; it practically melts on his tongue. “This is delicious. Where did you get them?”

 

“I made them,” he answers matter-of-factly.

 

Phil swallows. “You _made_ them?” he says, and he can’t keep the surprise from his voice.

 

“You don’t believe me?” Clint asks with a faint smirk.

 

“It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s that your diet consists primarily of take-out and whatever you can sweet-talk Marla into making for you in the mess. The only thing I’ve ever seen you cook are scrambled eggs. And those cookies you made for Bobbi when you were wooing her--”

 

Clint startles at Phil’s words and looks confused. His face flushes so red, so fast, that Phil’s a little bit afraid he’s going to pass out.

 

“ _Oh._ ” Phil says, suddenly slightly dizzy himself. “Are you… Clint, are you _wooing me_?”

 

Clint furrows his brow and glances down at the floor for a few seconds. When his eyes find Phil’s again, he looks bewildered. “Am I?”

 

Phil’s mind races and things start to fall into place – the bedside vigil, the showing off on the gun range, the coercing him to eat healthy, the pummeling he gave the recruit who’d questioned Phil’s abilities, the running, and now _scones_ – all of Clint’s uncharacteristic behavior doesn’t seem so odd if viewed through a different lens.   “ _Are_ you?” he asks again, knowing he sounds every bit as stunned as he feels.

 

Clint’s eyes dart from Phil to the plate of scones and then back. “I… don’t know. I think… maybe? I mean… hypothetically, if I were, how would you feel about that?” he hedges, his face still blazing.

 

Phil stares down at the plate in front of him. How _does_ he feel about that? He’d never given any serious consideration to the idea of Clint as a romantic partner. Sure, he’s attracted to the guy and always has been - who wouldn’t be? Those arms alone are enough to make any mortal swoon. But there were good reasons why he’d never let his mind go there: Clint dates women (but he’s never explicitly said he’s not interested in dating men); Clint was married (he’s not anymore); Clint wouldn’t be comfortable with the handler/asset thing (since the Avengers Initiative is coming online, that’s a moot point).

 

But the possibility… For the first time, he lets his mind go there. Clint is skilled, smart, and funny, and Phil knows he wouldn’t want it to get out, but he’s also incredibly kind and thoughtful. But even more, they _fit together_. The two of them have spent countless hours and days in easy companionship in close quarters, always without conflict or problems. In fact, Phil can’t think of a single time when he hadn’t outright _enjoyed_ it, even under the most trying circumstances.

 

And of course, there’s the part where he’s gorgeous, too. Phil’s eyes reflexively flick down to Hawkeye’s arms. They’re hypnotic, and, God, he feels an overwhelming need to press his mouth against Clint’s bicep and work his tongue against the roadmap of veins on Hawkeye’s skin; to feel the soft, springy relief as they give under the pressure of Phil’s mouth.      

 

It’s all so obvious, in retrospect.

 

Phil shakes his gaze away from Clint’s arms, knowing with crystal clarity, the answer to the question so he stands up and walks around his desk. Clint watches warily and takes a step back. Phil closes the distance and steps into Clint’s space.

 

“Phil?” he asks skittishly.

 

“Clint,” Phil answers, smiling.

 

“What…?” Clint’s brow furrows furiously.

 

“Ever since I woke up in the hospital, I’ve felt like I should be _doing_ something; that I was handed this miracle and it’s my responsibility to make something more of it because almost dying should _mean_ something. For weeks I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with my second chance, but I didn’t feel like I was _missing_ anything. I already felt happy. _Alive_. And I’m not sure how I missed it for so long, but it’s obvious to me now that everything I want is already right here in front of me.”

 

“What are you saying?” Clint rasps, then clears his throat and swallows noticeably.

 

“I’m saying…” Phil stops, searching for the right words. “Oh, forget it,” he says, and throws caution to the wind. He reaches up and gently cups Clint’s face, then moves in slowly to kiss him, giving the other man ample time to draw back.

 

But Clint doesn’t. He just licks his lips and watches Phil with bright eyes which close just as Phil’s mouth meets his. The kiss is soft, and sweet, but it makes Phil’s lips tingle and his heart pound. After a couple of seconds, he pulls back and looks at Clint to check his reaction. But Clint doesn’t even open his eyes before he surges forward and presses his lips to Phil’s again, this time a little firmer, a little less chaste. A couple seconds later, Clint’s tongue seeks entry and Phil makes a happy noise in the back of his throat and he wants it to go on forever. When Clint pulls back a moment later, Phil grunts his displeasure.

 

“So, if I was wooing you, what would your answer be?” Clint asks, smiling tentatively.

 

“Yes,” Phil answers without hesitation. “My answer would be 100% yes.”

 

Clint’s grin ignites. “Okay then, I’m wooing you.”

 

“Good,” Phil says before pulling Clint back in so he can finally get on with taking advantage of his second chance at life.

 

**

 

Fury walks into his office without knocking and deposits himself in the chair across from Phil. He’s grinning dangerously and Phil nearly squirms in his seat.

 

“Nick,” he says warily.

 

“Phil,” he says, reaching out and grabbing one of the scones.

 

“Have a scone,” he says pointedly.

 

“Don’t mind if I do,” he says before taking a sizable bite. He looks in surprise at the pastry in his hand. “This is good,” he says after swallowing. “I didn’t know your boyfriend could cook.”

 

Phil closes his eyes and sighs, then opens them back up and looks resignedly at his friend. “Go ahead and say it.”

 

“Say what, Phil?” he asks innocently, but there's amusement in his voice.

 

“Whatever it is you’ve been holding back for weeks.”

 

“Aw, Phil, would I do that?”

 

“Yes,” he says bitterly.  He deserves whatever Nick dishes out for being as dense as he’s been.

 

“Yeah, you’re right. Normally I would. But you know what? You two have been through a lot, and I’ve actually kind of been rooting for you.”

 

“Really?” Phil says, surprised, sitting up straight. “That’s… Thank you, Marcus.”

 

Nick blinks at him and then busts out laughing. “Did you really buy that? God, Cheese, I might have to reevaluate whether you’re ready to be back out in the field! But I did make a bundle off of you two morons, and _that_ makes me feel more generous than I probably should be.” He shoves another piece of scone into his mouth and grins evilly.

 

Phil cringes. “You were running a pool?”

 

“Of course I was.”  

 

Phil leans his elbows on the desk and drops his face into his hands. “You’re never going to let me forget this, are you?” he groans.

 

“ _Hell_ no!” Fury says as he stands, and Phil looks up in time to see him swipe another scone. “Seriously. These are good. Give my compliments to the chef.” Nick cackles. As he leaves, Phil hears him muttering though his laughter. “…blind fools… _Hawk_ eye my ass… even with only one eye…”

 

Phil shrugs, smiles, and reaches for another scone.

 

~END~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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**Author's Note:**

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